


you don't know how bad you've got me hooked

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Communication Failure, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Bickering, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Little Shit, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, References to Drugs, Richie Tozier is Bad at Feelings, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26044564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: Eddie begrudgingly says they can sit outside at brunch, because it’s such a nice day—even he can admit that—but he’s immediately frowning and swatting at invisible gnats while cupping his mimosa protectively with his other hand. The server is a chipper young woman who says, as she drops off the check, “Whenever you’re ready. You guys are such a cute couple!”Richie laughs in startled reaction and Eddie tells her flatly, “We’re not together.”Richie downs the remaining tiny bit of his mimosa and doesn’t look at her profusely apologizing as she takes Eddie’s card and hurries off.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 215





	you don't know how bad you've got me hooked

“You’re coming to Ben’s thing, right?” Bev asks, on her second glass of rosé (not her choice—she’d wanted to take out the Jameson, but Richie had refused on the grounds that he was saving it for a special occasion. What special occasion, he couldn’t say, just that this wasn’t it). 

“I’m ‘coming’ to Ben’s ‘thing’? Bev, you knew I swung that way in high school,” Richie tells her, tipping his glass in her direction. “I thought that was why you ‘dated’ me all junior and senior year, so people wouldn’t ask questions.” He winks. “I’d come to Ben’s thing any day. He’s hot, go you.” 

“Beep beep, Richie,” she tells him, with an eyeroll, but she’s smiling. That’s why he’s not suspecting it when she adds, a brow arched knowingly, “You have to bring a date, though. Dates are required. No admission otherwise.”

Richie knows very well that the architecture awards ceremony Ben’s being honored at is a big fucking deal, very fancy. Gowns and suits only. Bev’s been hot and heavy with Ben for months now, and Bev has been his best friend since high school. He genuinely likes Ben, hotness aside, and he knew he’d eventually be told he had to go, and to bring a date. He even knows who he wants his date to be. The thing is, Richie would never in a million years actually ask him, and he’s pretty sure Eddie wouldn’t go, even if he did. There’s no way Eddie would do the asking—Eddie’s gay too, but he’s never indicated any actual interest in Richie, not like that. But hell, Richie was so pathetic he’d settle for a platonic date. If Eddie asked.

Bev knows he likes Eddie. (“Likes him,” as if they’re in middle school. Which Richie feels like he is, when Eddie’s around.) He’s never said as much, but she knows him so well it wasn’t hard at all for her to figure out. Plus, Richie figures he’s pretty obvious, even if he tries not to be. 

They’d met at a dinner party Stan and Patty held at their home; Stan’s another good friend of Richie’s, and Stan knew Eddie through work. Eddie was also their friend Bill’s college roommate, and that was that. Eddie was absorbed into their friend group, which also included Bill’s bookclub friend Mike, like they’d known him forever. He’d immediately started arguing with Richie, and Richie was a goner. 

Ever since then, they’ve had more and more meetups and dinners with all of them as a group, and every time, as much as he loves the others, the only person he really has eyes for is Eddie. He teases him relentlessly, and Eddie snaps back. It’s like they’ve known each other forever. They even hang out a lot as just the two of them, but Eddie never indicates that he wants anything like what Richie wants. And what Richie wants is for Eddie to kiss him, to take him to bed. More than just that—to be with him. All that shit. But as far as Eddie seems to be concerned, they’re friends. 

Richie gives Bev a smile that’s actually more of his lips being stretched in a thin line. “Then I guess I’m not going. Sorry, Red. Give Ben a kiss for me.”

“He’d say yes if you just asked him, Richie.”

Richie arches a brow. “Who, Ben? Why, I never.”

“You know who I mean.” She stares him down, smiling but unrelenting.

Richie sighs. “I’m not asking him out, Bev.”

“Why not? Do you not believe me?”

“I’m telling you, if he wanted that he would have said something already. And he hasn’t. That’s it, okay? Let it go. I’m coming alone. My usual Saturday night.”

She laughs, but shakes her head. Thankfully, though, she does drop it. At least for the time being.

But what she’s said sticks in his mind. Bev’s rarely wrong about these things. The thing is, Richie would never just ask Eddie out. The thought of Eddie laughing in his face, telling him no, is just too much. No, Eddie would have to ask him. And Eddie’s probably been invited too, and hasn’t asked him about it at all yet. So, there it is. He might even already have a date—a horrifying thought. The best Richie could hope for would be to mention the event and see if Eddie said something like “Oh yeah, I’m going, want to go with me?” And then he’d start ranting about the dress code and what he expected Richie to wear. It was a thin hope, but it was all he had. He did want to go—just not alone, and with no one else but Eddie. This could be his chance to see if Eddie might want to be more than friends. But that’s a hell of a lot of wishful thinking.

He mulls this idea over once more in the shower, getting ready to join Eddie for brunch like they usually do on Sundays (“as is mandated by the gay agenda,” Richie likes to joke). Turning off the water, he mutters to himself, “You’re thirty years old, jackass. Just do like Bev says and ask him out.”

But he answers himself in the mirror, barely able to see himself between the steam and the fact that he isn’t wearing his glasses: “I can’t.”

Eddie begrudgingly says they can sit outside at brunch, because it’s such a nice day—even he can admit that—but he’s immediately frowning and swatting at invisible gnats while cupping his mimosa protectively with his other hand. The server is a chipper young woman who says, as she drops off the check, “Whenever you’re ready. You guys are such a cute couple!” 

Richie laughs in startled reaction and Eddie tells her flatly, “We’re not together.” 

Richie downs the remaining tiny bit of his mimosa and doesn’t look at her profusely apologizing as she takes Eddie’s card and hurries off.

“I’ll get it next time, _honey_ ,” Richie drawls, and Eddie makes a face. “However can I thank you?” Richie continues, still drawling, batting his lashes. He runs his foot up the inside of Eddie’s ankle, and Eddie jerks away, huffing. Richie smirks at him.

“The server thought Eddie and I were together, at brunch today,” Richie tells Bev casually that evening when she stops by for a nightcap. He’s carefully inserted this little anecdote among other casual anecdotes to make it seem like something amusing that happened in passing, but she’s not fooled, and she leans in, brows drawn together.

“And?”

“And Eddie immediately shut down that idea and made a face like someone pissed up his nose.”

Bev sighs. “I don’t think he meant it like that.”

“Oh yeah, I’m probably misinterpreting the fucking immediate denial and intense grimace of displeasure at the very idea of us being a quote, cute couple, unquote.”

“Oh, did she say that?” Bev laughs softly. “Well, she’s right.”

“Eddie probably didn’t tip her, just for that,” Richie grouses, ignoring that, peeling at the label on his beer bottle—a specialty imported brand Eddie had tracked down for him. “We’ll probably never go back there again,” he adds gloomily.

Bev laughs again. “Richie. You’re pouting like a teenager.”

“He makes me act like one!” Richie protests. “Go blame him.”

Bev groans. “Just ask him!”

“Never!” Richie declares, and finishes his beer.

The next time he and Eddie go out for a meal, on Wednesday, when the server asks whether it’s one check or two, Richie says “One, bring it to me” before Eddie can react, and leans his chin on his hand, batting his lashes at Eddie. He adds in a higher, breathy voice, “One. Because we’re together, aren’t we, baby?”

Eddie scowls. The server chuckles nervously and speeds off.

“Sorry, I know the idea of us being a couple is super gross to you,” Richie says in his normal voice, pretending to sound offhand.

“Rich—”

“I think I’m getting the deluxe cheeseburger this time,” Richie says, looking at the menu. “Haven’t done that before.”

“Richie—” Eddie sounds increasingly impatient. Richie can’t help pushing.

“It’s too bad you’re completely disgusted at the very idea, because I’m always a sure thing,” Richie continues, glancing up from the menu to wink at Eddie, which apparently infuriates him into muttering into his ice water.

“I have hinted that he should ask me out,” he tells Bev later. 

She rolls her eyes. “Did you phrase it like a dare? Did you say ‘I dare you to ask me out’?”

“Not as such,” he tells her loftily, like he’s above that. “But maybe I should try that.”

“I mean, I’d say not to dare him because you’re not a child, but… you are and he is too, so he’d probably respond to that.” Bev shakes her head like she just can’t believe she even associates with them. “Look. Richie, you’re going and you need a date. It’s almost Saturday and you’ve known about this for months. Get a date. Get him.”

“You’re the worst,” Richie complains.

Richie meets Eddie for breakfast and coffee that Saturday morning. Richie basically rolled out of bed and stumbled over, but Eddie’s clearly just showered after his run; he looks edible. Richie distracts himself from that by looking over the menu, despite the fact that they’ve been here many times, and bothers Eddie about how he likes his eggs in the morning until Eddie’s glaring at him and Richie’s getting that familiar funny feeling in his stomach. 

Richie blows on his coffee and blurts out casually— _smooth_ — “You going to Ben’s thing?”

“Ben’s thing tonight?” Eddie asks, eyebrows raised.

“The very same.”

“Are you?”

Richie blinks. He hadn’t expected that. “No?” He takes a long panicked drink of hot coffee, hoping it’ll be long enough that he somehow won’t have to answer Eddie’s next question.

“Why not? Bev’s gonna be pissed if you don’t, you better have a good excuse.”

“Do you have a good excuse for not going?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going.”

“So you’re going?”

“No.” 

“So what’s your excuse?”

“Bev said you have to have a date. I don’t have a date.”

Richie coughs. “Oh yeah? I find that hard to believe. Cute little thing like you, dateless for a gala on a Saturday night? No insurance industry gold-digging groupies on your arm?”

Eddie snorts. “Insurance groupies. Give me a fucking break.” He kicks at Richie’s leg under the table. “I assume you don’t have a date either, or do you have a gig?”

“Waitress, a small child is kicking me under the table,” Richie declares, raising a finger in the air and looking around. “I demand my meal be comped. What kind of place is this?”

“Fuck you.” Eddie kicks him some more, and narrows his eyes. “Why aren’t you going?”

“Uh. I have a gig.”

“Really,” Eddie says flatly. “Where?”

“Uncle Lucky’s Chuckle Hut.”

Eddie’s mouth does a complicated thing. “That’s not a real place.” 

“How do you know? You’re suddenly an expert on comedy venues in the greater New York City area?”

Eddie levels his brow like a weapon. “Richie. Just admit you don’t have a date and we’ll go together.”

Richie sets down his coffee. “I…. Yeah, no,” he says, mentally kicking himself even as he says it.

Eddie raises his brow even higher than he did before, affronted. “Why the fuck not, asshole?” He blinks. “Is it because I’m not famous? Sorry—” he makes vigorous finger quotes— “not ‘famous’? You need to be publicly seen at an event with another ‘famous’ person, for your ‘career’?” 

“Fuck you, dude,” Richie says, pointing at him. “I am _so_ famous, I’m a solid D-lister.”

“For all anyone else knows I could be a D-lister too,” Eddie argues. “Fuck you, you’re not too big to be seen at an event with me. I have a Prada suit and Gucci loafers, I’m pretty fucking sure you don’t.”

“Fame is about more than Prada and Gucci, Eds,” Richie says, affecting a somber tone, “but if you insist, I guess you can be my date to Ben’s thing.”

“Fine,” Eddie retorts.

Richie grins, putting on a show of looking smug. “Good.”

“I know it’s good.” Eddie looks like a little raincloud.

“Wonderful.”

Richie spends the rest of breakfast trying not to smile too broadly, too suspiciously.

 _I tricked him into being my date_ , Richie texts Bev. She replies with the eyeroll emoji, then adds, _It’s literally tonight, I was about to give your table places away_. She follows that with instructions on which of the suits she’s obtained for him he’s supposed to wear (slate blue), and with what (black t-shirt).

Bev sends a limo to pick up Eddie and then him; Richie is half afraid he’ll get down there to it and find no one else inside, even though Eddie has been bugging him with texts all evening about being ready on time. He still suspects a prank.

But Eddie’s there, seated on the black leather, in a black suit, black tie, black shirt with his sleek dark hair and big dark eyes. He looks amazing and he smells like expensive cologne. Richie briefly wonders how he’s going to survive the evening, and when Eddie’s clearly checking him out as he gets in, he thinks he dies a little. “Looking good, Rich,” he says, with no hint of mocking to his voice, and Richie dies a little more. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Richie says with a wink. “Told you, I’m a sure thing.” Eddie rolls his eyes, an annoyed flush on his cheeks.

Just because they’re technically each other’s dates doesn’t mean this is really a _date_ , Richie reminds himself as he fastens his seatbelt. They both had to go to this, they both needed a date, and voila. Born out of necessity. Just helping each other out. That’s all it is. 

Eddie has his hand on the leather seat between himself and Richie, and Richie can’t help imagining putting his own hand over it, twining his fingers with Eddie’s like they’re really together. He clears his throat and looks out the window as the driver pulls into traffic. 

“Ever been to one of these things?” Richie asks after a period of silence. “They can be weird.”

“Oh like you’re an expert,” Eddie scoffs.

“I’ve been to things like this! I know when things are weird. Look, just don’t act like Tom Hanks in _Big_ , eating baby corn like it’s corn on the cob, is all I’m saying. Don’t embarrass me.”

Eddie makes a strangled noise. “Richie, I work for a Fortune 100 company, we have Christmas parties like nothing you’ve ever dreamed. If anyone’s going to eat baby corn like it’s corn on the cob and be embarrassing, it’s _you_.”

“Oh yeah? One wrap party in L.A. has more _snow_ than any of your December insurance groupie parties,” Richie says, pressing a forefinger to the side of his nose like Eddie won’t get it otherwise.

Eddie makes a face. “I’ve told you there’s no such thing as insurance groupies.”

“Oh baby. There should be,” Richie says with a leer, putting a hand on Eddie’s knee. Eddie folds his arms, scowling.

“Jackass,” Eddie mutters. “And it’s not like there isn’t coke in fucking Manhattan, Jesus, they’ve made like a dozen movies about it.”

“Yes, dear.” Richie gives his knee a parting squeeze, trying not to think too much about how nice and firm the muscle is there, and sits back again. 

There are photographers and an actual red carpet at the venue, something Richie suspected but was hoping wouldn’t be the case and never got around to asking Bev about directly. His heart sinks as the limo pulls up along the curb—this is going to be weird. He’s recognizable, and he’s out, but if this hits the gossip pages anywhere it’ll bring speculation that Eddie is his boyfriend. Richie doubts Eddie asked for that when he agreed to go to this with him. With a sigh, he unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Uh, so,” he says, turning to Eddie, “there are cameras and it’s going to look like you’re my boyfriend, probably? I mean, it’s probably easiest if you act like it… or like you’re my date, at least? I guess?” He shrugs, and when the door is opened he starts to get out. “Sorry,” he adds under his breath.

Eddie scowls. “You think I’m not going to act like I’m your date? Hold my hand, asshole,” he says as he scoots over the leather to follow Richie out of the limo.

Once they’re out and standing, Richie whispers, “Follow my lead, we’ll fake it. Just smile and look pretty.” He reaches for Eddie’s hand, and Eddie basically thrusts it at him and squeezes his own, and it’s all Richie can do to not squeeze back.

Richie imagines dragging a reluctant Eddie with a rictus plastered on his face down the red carpet and stifles a laugh—but Eddie’s kinda working it, he realizes, glancing back at him. His smile actually looks pretty close to genuine, and he’s—he’s actually kind of posing for the cameras. He’s enjoying this. Richie wonders if it’s specifically to torment him or to just be an ass about Richie telling him what to do, and figures it’s the latter, because Eddie has no way of knowing that his acting happy to be here and happy to be assumed to be Richie’s boyfriend is a special kind of torment for him. 

At the area where attendees pause to pose for pictures just before going in, Eddie lets go of his hand, and Richie immediately thinks he’ll be left out here gaping after Eddie while he goes in to eat hors d’oeuvres… instead he’s surprised when Eddie slips an arm around his waist, snug up against him, casual like he’s comfortable with it and it’s something he’s accustomed to doing, which it definitely is not. 

Richie glances quickly at him—he’s still smiling, dimples on display, like he’s actually proud and pleased to be there with Richie. Richie’s heart skips a beat, something he didn’t think actually happened, and he somewhat clumsily puts an arm around Eddie in turn, glad to have something to do with at least one hand. 

He tries his best to smile the smile Bev taught him, and then, to his horror, he’s being spoken to by someone with a microphone, someone who knows who he is, who asks him why he’s here (easy enough—supporting his longtime friend, designer Beverly Marsh, and her partner being honored tonight), and who he’s with. Richie feels the seconds crawl into passing like hours—for some reason, he stupidly hadn’t expected to be officially _asked_ who Eddie was. 

“Uh, this is—”

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” Eddie says, assured, smiling, using what’s probably his Meeting The Bigwig’s Wife At Our Christmas Party voice. “It’s Polish.” He tightens his arm around Richie, which derails anything Richie might have been planning to add. Luckily, someone else more important than Richie or Eddie is spotted by the reporter, who bids them a good evening with a smile and rushes on.

“Jesus,” Richie says, with an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry about that, didn’t realize we’d be quite so put on the spot.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, sounding fond, and as they walk toward the door, largely ignored now by the cameras, Richie feels Eddie move his hand to... squeeze his ass. 

Richie gasps like a prom night date getting goosed, nearly trips, and stares at Eddie, who raises a brow. 

“Get it together, Rich, let’s get our seats.”

“I think you got _my_ seat,” Richie mutters, face hot, and Eddie laughs, sounding delighted. He takes Richie’s hand again, casual like it’s totally normal. 

This place is a big, snazzy joint, and it takes them a while to make their way to their table, past the room where cocktails are being served and people are mingling. Everything’s glittering and gleaming, and with his butt still tingling from Eddie’s grabbing it, Richie feels mildly dazed. As they find their seats and prepare to sit down, once he’s let his hand go Eddie pats his ass again, discreet yet oddly proprietary and definitely not accidental, and Richie’s sure his flustered feelings show on his face as he automatically bites his lip. Eddie winks at him, and Richie reflects that he’s being soundly punished for telling Eddie to act like his boyfriend. Yet it’s difficult to regret anything much, since the seats are narrow with as many as possible clustered around each table, and Eddie is still very much in his space. Yes, it’s torture, but—

Bev is rushing over to them, gorgeous in a sparkling violet dress, and kissing them on the cheeks. Richie’s momentarily relieved by the distraction. “Bev, you look fucking amazing—”

“I’m so glad you’re here, you both look incredible, you jerks,” Bev says. Turning to him, she adds, “I knew you’d—”

“Bev,” Richie interrupts, “Ben’s looking for you.” And it’s not a lie; Ben is in a tux looking anxious, casting his gaze around. 

“Oh!” Bev rushes off to him.

“Knew you’d what?” Eddie asks, squinting speculatively.

“I don’t know, be a ‘cute couple,’ maybe?” Richie answers, unable to completely keep all edge from his tone. 

“Yeah, right.” Under the table, Eddie squeezes his thigh, and Richie goes very still. As soon as the champagne is poured for him as the server goes around their table, he drinks it even though Eddie hisses “Richie!” because he’s not supposed to yet and he knows it. Richie shrugs, because Eddie’s hand is still resting on his leg, his palm all hot, and what else is he supposed to do? Who’d have thought Eddie Kaspbrak’s idea of revenge was getting all proprietary and handsy?

There’s plenty more champagne on hand, it turns out, and a four-course meal. By the time it’s Ben’s turn to be awarded, Richie’s definitely tipsy, and Eddie, who never drinks as much as the rest of them do (it’s unhealthy, he points out), even seems a little drunk, at least from the way he’s leaning into Richie’s space, like an actual, real boyfriend would. They applaud Ben pretty raucously.

After dessert, Eddie even stops, flicks a cake crumb from Richie’s lapel, and honest to God swipes a dab of frosting from Richie’s lower lip before sucking it from his thumb. Richie blinks at him in a daze and Eddie just smiles, smug and dimpled. The little bastard. 

The dinner is followed by dancing and live music, and hell no Richie’s not even going to mention dancing to Eddie. The dance floor is not far from them, however, and it’s quickly apparent that the volume of the music means they can’t sit there and… talk, or whatever. “C’mon,” Eddie says, just as Richie’s opening his mouth to ask if Eddie wants to get a taxi and head home; they can drop him off first. Eddie holds out his hand and pulls Richie to his feet. 

“We’re not… dancing, right?” Richie asks, beginning to panic.

Eddie scoffs. “No, I’m not dancing with your tipsy ass. I’m not looking to go to the ER tonight.”

“Screw you, I’m a great dancer.” 

Ignoring that, Eddie straightens Richie’s lapels and briskly runs his hands over the front of his suit jacket like he’s ridding it of invisible wrinkles. Richie reaches for the knot of Eddie’s tie to fiddle with it and immediately gets his hand slapped away.

“Ow.”

“C’mon. Let’s get an apéritif.”

“We’ve been drinking champagne all night. You don’t even drink, Eddie.”

“Come _on_ , Rich.” Eddie takes his hand again and leads him to the bar; to the bartender, he says, “Two Between the Sheets, please,” while Richie gawks. It’s a cocktail with cognac, rum, triple sec, and lemon juice, and it makes Richie feel warm from his stomach outward. 

Mike and Bill walk past, playfully arguing about a book, and Eddie grabs Bill’s sleeve to pull him into a hug, Bill slapping his back. Mike grins and nods, a little awkward; it’s almost like, Richie thinks, he and Bill are on a first date. “You guys here together too?” Bill asks, gesturing at Richie and Eddie, and Richie cringes inside. Fucking Bill. Well, at least Bill and Mike are confirmed. Kinda?

“Yes,” Eddie says, as Richie says “Well, we had to have a date to come, and we were required to come, you know.” Eddie narrows his eyes at him. “It’s not really a date,” Richie adds hastily.

“Right,” Bill finally says, and Mike nods.

Eddie sets his empty glass down on a passing caterer’s tray; Richie does the same. “I think we should get going, guys,” Eddie says, addressing Bill and Mike but looking directly at Richie, “grab a taxi and head home. Right, sweetheart?” he adds, a devious smile curling his lips.

“Uh,” Richie says, unprepared for it when Eddie cups his jaw, pulls him down, and gets on his tiptoes to kiss him. It’s a firm kiss and a brief lick into Richie’s parted lips; Eddie tastes like tiramisu, coffee, and citrus. Richie’s hand fumbles for Eddie’s jacket, and then Eddie’s already pulling back, giving him a smug Look that goes right to Richie’s groin. “Yeah. Taxi,” he says. Jesus, alcohol must really have an effect on Eddie. No wonder he doesn’t indulge very often. 

Richie casts Mike and Bill a gaze that he hopes says “Help me,” but they just smile and wish them a good night. 

“Don’t you want to say goodnight to Ben and Bev?” Richie asks, as Eddie, having grabbed his hand again, pulls him toward the front. 

“They’ve gotta be busy. We’ll see them later,” Eddie tells him. “Tomorrow or something.”

The backseat of the taxi is smaller and narrower than the one in the limo, unsurprisingly, but Richie still isn’t expecting it when Eddie grabs him by the lapel after he’s buckled his seatbelt, and kisses him. “Jesus, Eddie,” Richie gasps out.

“Mmph,” Eddie says, and kisses him again.

“We’re not—” Eddie’s hand slides under Richie’s jacket, and Richie yelps quietly. “We’re not in public anymore, dude, you don’t have to— I don’t think the driver cares—”

“Rich—” Eddie’s nipping at his lips, God—

“Oh! You’re— I knew you had too much to drink, you don’t drink, Eddie—”

“Richie! Shut up and let me kiss you.”

“Okay,” Richie starts to say, but he can’t really, not with Eddie’s tongue in his mouth. 

Richie becomes dimly aware that the driver is saying Eddie’s address, kind of loudly and possibly more than once. Eddie pulls back with a gasp, unbuckles his seatbelt, and starts peeling bills from his wallet. “You coming?” he asks Richie.

Richie nods dumbly.

He’s been in Eddie’s apartment before, but this time, it’s dark when they walk in, and Eddie is kissing him again. Eddie’s pressing him against the wall, hands under his jacket again, tongue in his mouth as he gets his hands under his shirt, pulling it from his waistband. “Really, Rich, a t-shirt?” he mutters against his lips before he’s licking into Richie’s mouth again. 

“Mmph,” Richie can only say, shivering at the feeling of Eddie’s hands on his bare skin.

“I’ll make it work but you might have to hold it out of the way,” Eddie says as he pulls back, and he starts undoing Richie’s fly, sinking to his knees.

Richie stares.

“Eddie,” he gets out, mouth dry. “ _Eddie_.”

Eddie looks up at him. The sight of Eddie on his knees in a black suit, hair slick and neat, big eyes staring up at him impatiently, tongue wetting his lips, makes Richie forget for a moment what he was going to say. “What?”

“What are we doing?”

“I’m trying to blow you, Rich,” Eddie says, putting a hand in Richie’s fly and pressing a hot palm over the bulge in his boxer-briefs. Richie can’t help closing his eyes for a moment, or a stuttering moan that escapes him, or the way he arches into Eddie’s hand. “You want this?”

Richie blinks. “Are you—”

“Sober?” Eddie finishes. “I’m not drunk. Are you?”

Richie shakes his head. “But this— It’s not a real date, Eds.”

“Feels pretty real to me,” Eddie says, giving Richie a squeeze over his underwear. Then something changes in his face: his eyes go wide, and he swallows. “Unless… you really don’t— Rich, it can be whatever you want. If you didn’t want it to be a date, we— I know you don’t—”

“I don’t what?” Richie’s totally confused. 

“I know you think the idea of us being together is… a big joke,” Eddie says, and his eyes are so big, why are his eyes so big, “but—”

“You’re the one who shot down the idea of us being a couple!” Richie exclaims, the embarrassment and hurt flooding his mind anew, despite the fact that Eddie’s hot hand is still in his pants. “Like, immediately!”

“You kept making jokes about it! Like it was the funniest thing you’d ever heard,” Eddie counters.

“Because you—”

“Do you—want us to be together?” Eddie asks, haltingly, like it’s a big deal for him to say it.

“Yeah!” Richie says. “Jesus, if I dropped any more hints—”

“Hints! Richie,” Eddie says, exasperated, “if you want something, you should ask for it.”

“I could say the same to you!”

“Am I not being forward enough for you, here?” Eddie asks. “With my hand in your pants and my mouth about to be on your dick?”

“If you didn’t think I wanted us to be together, why—”

“Because I think you’re hot and I want to blow you, okay?” Eddie says, face turning red. “Why are you arguing with me about it?”

“I don’t know!” Richie says helplessly. “Just— We don’t have to do this here if you don’t want—”

“You want to take this to the bedroom?” Eddie says. “We can do that, but first— I want to make your knees weak.”

“Oh God,” Richie groans, as Eddie pulls his underwear down and his cock springs free. 

Eddie doesn’t tease, at least not now; he takes him as far as he can, aggressively ambitious, and Richie’s shaking hands go to his gelled hair. Eddie hums around his dick in what seems to be approval of Richie’s hands on him. Richie can’t help staring down at him, dazed: Eddie’s cheeks hollowing out as his head bobs, his dark eyes as he glances up at Richie. Eddie’s hands frame his hips, encouraging Richie to fuck his mouth, and honestly Richie thinks he probably couldn’t last long even if he were to try.

“I’m—”

Eddie grips his hips tighter and doesn’t pull off.

Richie’s knees are in fact weak and he slumps against the wall, sinking down a little, shaking. Eddie tucks him back in, stands up and kisses him, and Richie tastes himself on Eddie’s tongue. It’s a kiss that’s looser, sloppier than their previous ones, slower but somehow more urgent. Eddie presses against him, pressing him against the wall, grinding his hips into Richie’s. Richie’s hands cup his hips, pull Eddie against him as he’s kissed. “No bedroom?” 

“Don’t want to stop, no time,” Eddie gets out. 

“Let me—” Richie fumbles between them with trembling fingers to undo Eddie’s fly and get a hand around his cock, but he’s barely even touched it before Eddie is coming over his fingers. 

“Fuck, gotta dry-clean these pants,” Eddie whispers, shakily. 

Richie can’t help kissing his forehead, chuckling softly. “God, you’re— Now can we get to the bedroom so we can get these clothes off and maybe not get any more jizz on them, you impatient little fuck?”

“Impatient! If I didn’t get shit moving,” Eddie says, “you’d be at home pouting tonight—”

“I got shit moving! I asked if you were going,” Richie points out, pausing to be kissed again before Eddie pulls him up. 

“Yeah, probably because Bev threatened you if you didn’t.”

Richie gasps in pretend affront at it all being so obvious, but doesn’t deny it; he’s grateful for the distraction when Eddie takes his shoes off and orders him to as well. Richie follows him to the bedroom. 

Eddie’s stripping off all his black clothes, methodical and neat but quick, and Richie’s distracted from taking off his own clothes by the sight of increasing amounts of smooth olive skin dusted with black hair, plus the fact that Eddie clearly works out. “Jesus.”

“Get it together, Tozier,” Eddie says, hands on his hips in his little black briefs before he takes them off, since they’re probably pretty sticky, and Richie realizes he’s going to be watched. 

“Uh,” Richie says, and strips down to his boxer-briefs pretty quickly, Eddie’s eyes on him like a brand. 

“We’re sleeping,” Eddie declares, somewhat to Richie’s surprise, taking some sleep pants from a drawer and hiding his naked form from a bereft Richie. Before long Eddie’s hustled him into his bed and under the covers, tucked up behind him like Richie’s finally where he belongs. He could get used to this. 

He might have to break out the Jameson, next time he has Eddie over. It’ll be a special occasion, after all. 

“We talking about this?” Eddie says in the dark, snug up behind him. 

“Um, I thought we were sleeping?” Richie says, on a rising trepidation. “What is ‘this’ that we’d be talking about?”

“You said you kept dropping hints, after I told you I thought you thought the idea of us being together was some kind of big joke.” Eddie’s mouth against the back of his neck makes him shiver. “Hints? What’s your idea of a hint?”

“What are you, a lawyer? I’m not on trial here. I want representation.”

“I just think I’ve figured you out, that’s all.” 

Going still, Richie clears his throat, panicking a little. “Uh, no. No, you haven’t, because, uh, there’s nothing to figure out, man.” He turns somewhat, raising a finger to point to the ceiling like he’s underscoring his airtight argument.

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a few beats, and then he kisses Richie’s neck just under his ear; Richie can feel that he’s smiling. “Right, of course,” Eddie says, amusement in his voice. “I take it back.”

“Good.” Richie swallows. “See that you… do.”

“Good night, Rich,” Eddie says, sounding fond now, putting an arm over him. Richie puts his own arm over Eddie’s because he can’t help it and he wants to, grateful for a reason for them both to shut up.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on discussion with Liz <3 I've got a fairly heavy WIP I've been toiling away on so it was nice to revisit and complete an old, very not-heavy WIP as a break. Sometimes you just want to write idiots getting together.  
> Also I don't know anything about awards galas and God knows what kind of architecture awards have a red carpet, but hey.  
> Title courtesy The Bangles.


End file.
